


Woodstock

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's senses are playing tricks on him, except when it comes to Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woodstock

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spn_j2_xmas exchange on LJ for Padacocking. Uses (kind of) their prompt "temporary blindness" and their likes for lap sex, hair-pulling, and bottom!Sam.

“Fairy dust,” says Dean. It’s about the tenth time, but his store of contempt is undiminished. “I thought you’d reached your low point with clown glitter. Guess I underestimated you. Fairy dust.”

Sam doesn’t think it’s particularly funny.

“It’s not funny,” he says. “Being fairy dusted” -- or clown glittered, for that matter -- “isn’t funny, Dean.”

Dean snorts. Sam can see it, somewhere to his left. He turns, feeling his way along an edge of darkness. Leaves rattle orange.

“You look like a mime on acid,” says Dean. Somewhere to Sam’s left. Being an asshole. “A blind mime on acid.”

It wouldn’t be so bad if Sam were blind. Or if he were seeing things. That happens, Sam read it somewhere. People losing their sight can get hallucinations, 20/20, clearer than vision. Not that Sam really wants to try hallucinating again, or visions. He’s retired, dammit. But this is temporary. And blind would beat feeling colors and tasting sound, tripping over crossed senses. It would beat the sharp, complex shapes of darkness, the way they hedge him in in planes of scent. If he closes his eyes (which is stupid, he’s blind, close enough, at least he can’t see), if he closes his eyes, it’s a maze of evergreen. All dense corners, smelling of Christmas. It’s like having the worst migraine of his life, without the compass points of pain to fix him.

At least Dean’s still being an asshole. That’s orienting. Talk about compass points.

“You could sit down,” says Dean. “I mean, the mime act is entertaining and all, but you’re making me dizzy.”

Sam gropes through heavy silk panels of heat and cold and sits on the bed. He hopes it’s the bed. But if it’s the bed it’s not working, because he’s falling, falling ass over heels through a kaleidoscope. He reaches out on a panicked breath to grab onto the colors. 

Dean’s hand catches his wrist and it’s Dean’s hand. 

This is the first time Sam’s had fairy dust thrown in his face. But it’s not the first time for the rest of it, not the first time Sam’s been sent spinning through a chaos of nothing. Last time Dean wasn’t there. Last time it was months, months before a yelp and a screech of brakes and the texture of fur arrested his freefall.

His hand grips Dean’s forearm, making sure, before gravity gives way with the rest of his senses. 

“Hey,” says Dean, asshole to concerned, zero to sixty in seconds, and yeah, that’s Dean. Sam leans into the voice. Maybe even fae-induced synaesthesia has its perks, because Dean’s voice is rough and warm and Sam may have thought that before – not that he’d ever tell Dean -- but it’s never been literal, a texture like sun-warmed bark against his skin. Dean jostles his shoulder against Sam’s.

“It’ll wear off,” he says. “A few hours, Garth said. No harm done. Maybe you should just sit still. Since you’re a lousy mime and too uptight to have fun.”

Which is all very well, but _still_ is swirling around Sam, tugging at him like a current, dissolving into motes of color, notes of sound, disintegrating on his tongue. The only piece holding together is the muscle of Dean’s arm under Sam’s fingers, solid touch and warmth.

He slides his hand up Dean’s arm and it’s cloth and then the give of skin above Dean’s collar and the prickle of stubble. 

“Huh,” Sam says. Nothing’s sliding out of place. Touch stays touch. Sam pulls Dean experimentally closer. It’s hard to judge distances when he can’t really see. Luckily Dean’s cooperating, getting his mouth in range. His lips are soft and dry like they always are, growing slick and pliant as the kiss deepens, sucking Sam in and back onto solid ground. He tastes of Dean. Just Dean. Not, like, bicycle bells, or chartreuse.

“Huh,” says Sam again. He moves his hand down Dean’s chest, the nub of a nipple hard through the cloth of Dean’s shirt. It feels like a nipple. “Huh,” says Sam for the third time. He teases the nipple with his thumb. No special effects.

Dean draws a sharp breath, half arousal, half disbelief.

“Seriously?” he says. “Sex? You want to have kinky fairy dust sex? What is this, your own private Woodstock?” Not that he sounds disapproving. Just a little aggrieved. “I didn’t take a hit of the stuff, you know,” he goes on. “This is going to be much more awesome for you than it is for me.” But Dean’s hand is steady at the back of his neck, fingers already twining up into Sam’s hair, pulling a bit, like he’s testing something that will hold. 

Sam’s breathing goes fast at that, like it always does, though right now it may be apprehension. Any moment that anchoring tug could break, dissolve with the rest into a chirp of birds or a swirl of pink or a taste of cloves. He can’t handle that. Let everything else go haywire, but he needs Dean to be Dean. He needs something to hold onto.

“I think it helps,” he says, because that will get Dean, surer than sex. 

“Not like I’m saying no,” says Dean. He sets to work on Sam’s belt, palms Sam’s dick through his boxers. Perception rushes south with Sam’s blood, concentrates under Dean’s hand. There’s a thrum in Sam’s ears but it’s steadying.

“Blowjob would be good,” Dean suggests “You can tell me if my jizz sounds like Zeppelin or looks like fireworks or whatever.”

Which would be what Dean got out of synaesthesia, yeah. Dean would enjoy the hell out of this fairy dust thing. Sam can’t, though. Sam needs to be safe. It’s a metaphysical thing.

“No,” Sam says. He wants Dean under him so he won’t fall. He wants Dean in him, a linchpin, an axis. “Ride you. Like this.” He straddles Dean and Dean grunts acquiescence, dick pressing the crack of Sam’s ass. Notched together, doing up reality like a zipper. Things stay lined up even while Sam skins out of his clothes, while Dean yanks jeans and boxers off, tosses his t-shirt and rummages for the lube. They settle skin against skin while Dean works Sam open. 

It’s funny how it makes sense now. The probing of Dean’s fingers is sparks. The sparks come out moans. Like it’s weaving together, not coming apart, joined where Sam sinks down on Dean and they find their rhythm.

The warm slick of come in his body, the tug at his hair, Dean’s shouted “Sam” are the same. 

The hand twisted tight in Sam’s hair holds his face mashed against Dean’s neck. If he could see there’d be nothing to see. Nothing to take him away from Dean’s other hand on his dick, the intolerable build of sensation. Sam opens his mouth, tastes salt and Dean. He can hardly breathe. Dean’s rocking him in time with the twist of his wrist, with the twist in his hair, tying him to this, to Dean, to the tug of now, now. It crests through him, absolute and single, fusing in a thunderclap of light.

Sam’s pulls them down on the bed, Dean’s head on his shoulder. A truck rattles past the window, pulsing with color. It’s not enough to shake Sam loose again, though, not from the steady center of Dean’s breathing.

“So how was it, fairy dust sex?” Dean asks. 

“You mean, was my orgasm awesomer than yours?” Sam says. “Yeah, probably.”

“In your dreams, Sammy. I rule at orgasms. I’m the fucking orgasm king. No, the freaky cross-wired shit. Did it, I dunno, taste of popcorn or something?”

Maybe Dean’s waiting for Sam to tell him his dick is Jimmy Page. But Sam knows how to get Dean when Dean goes fishing for compliments.

“No popcorn,” he says. “No guitar solos. Just, you know, you. That was kind of the point, dude.”

Gets Dean every time. Go fishing for compliments, hook something real. Dean shifts in the dark and turns over, but his hand is still wound in Sam’s hair. Sam can feel it. It’s a tangle of roots, a rustling and swaying in place. What he’s always wanted. It’s not so bad, seeing it like this.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Woodstock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/763622) by [lyryk (s_k)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk)




End file.
